


you are tired (i think)

by Infinite_Monkeys



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Crossover, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Matt Murdock, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Post-Episode: s01e08 The Defenders, discussion of religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-10-01 13:51:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17245406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infinite_Monkeys/pseuds/Infinite_Monkeys
Summary: Post-Defenders, Matt is wounded, physically and mentally. He needs a safe place to heal, away from the craziness of Hell's Kitchen.Father Lantom calls an old friend, and Father Forthill knows just the family.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so for a bit of context: I wrote most of this post-Defenders, so it is very not Daredevil S3 compliant. I finally finished it because the beginning of season 3 reminded me of all the reasons why I think Matt needs a mentor, which of course made me think of my other favorite Catholic crimefighter. I think this can be read without knowing any of the Dresden Files characters, but it probably won't be very satisfying if you're not familiar with Daredevil.
> 
> Just a warning: this fic contains discussion of religious themes from the perspective of two Catholic characters as written by an author who is Christian but not Catholic. I've discussed some of these topics with Catholic friends, though, so hopefully the story stays accurate to the characters and their system of belief. 
> 
> Content warning for mentions of suicide.
> 
> This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Daredevil and associated characters belong to Marvel, while all characters from the Dresden Files belong to Jim Butcher.

Father Lantom had been around for long enough to know that the most dangerous thing a man of the cloth could do was to believe himself in possession of all of the answers. Leadership meant giving advice. Wise leadership, though, also meant knowing when to seek it.

And when two nuns met him in his office, insisting on secrecy before telling him that someone had left a wounded and very unconscious Devil on their doorstep and what, please, should they do with him, that was a time to seek advice.

First he turned upwards, sending up a swift but heartfelt prayer for guidance, for wisdom, and for the patience not to go to Mr Murdock now and beat some sense into whatever was left of his thick skull.

Next he picked up the phone. Every sensible leader had at least one person they could turn to for advice; a peer, someone uninvolved in their affairs but whose judgement they trusted as well as their own.

His answered the phone after three rings.

"Father Forthill," he said, and the steadiness in his voice was soothing. "How may I be of service?"

"My friend," Father Lantom began. "I have a difficult one for you today."

He could feel the other man relax, tone fading into something more casual but no less gentle. "It's good to hear from you," he said. "It's been entirely too long, though I'm afraid that's my own fault as much as yours. How are you?"

"In a bit of a situation, actually. I'm in need of your perspective." He did his best to keep his voice calm, but no doubt Father Forthill could pick up the strain coming through. Reading the emotions of others was something they were both good at; their job required it.

"So something more serious than another tough philosophy question from that young man of yours, then?" A wry chuckle echoed over the line.

"I'm afraid so."

The entire story came spilling out, then, more than he intended to share and probably more than he should have. Several times he narrowly avoided repeating something told to him under seal of confession, but even the rest, the details he had gleaned from news stories and from his and Matt's more informal conversations over lattes, felt a little like a betrayal.

He told his friend about the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, the crimes he'd been cleared of and those he hadn't, his brutal methods and fierce love of his city. The suspicion that became a certainty that this Devil was the same young man who came to see him with worrying bruises and even more worrying questions about guilt and doubt and evil and death.

He shared the more disturbing rumors he heard whispered through the city, rumors about undead ninja armies being stopped by superhumanly strong vigilantes, described the tearful visit paid him by Matthew's lawyer friend after his supposed death, and finished it with the sudden reemergence of the Devil as a patient in a orphanage-turned-makeshift-hospital.

Father Forthill listened in silence until he finished, and when he answered it was not with the disbelief he had expected, but with an unaccustomed reluctance. "I might have an idea," he said at last. "A family he could stay with until he heals."

"I was serious about the cursed ninjas." Father Lantom sighed. "I'm afraid that anyone who shelters him will become a target."

"I know." Forthill's voice steadied. "Let me talk to the Carpenters."

By the time the phone rang a few hours later, he had driven himself half-crazy weighing the options. Turning Matthew over to the police was as good as handing him to the ninjas or any of the other myriad enemies Daredevil had made, and the hospital was as good as handing him to the police. His friends clearly cared for him but their relationship had been strained even before his supposed death, and Lantom didn't know them well enough to say what they'd do if he told them Matthew was alive. He couldn't ask the nuns to shelter him indefinitely; the two he'd seen had been upset enough that he'd asked for time to think. He was beginning to think he'd end up nursing a Devil back to health himself, and the good Lord knew he wasn't equipped for that.

He picked up the phone and growled out a far sharper greeting than his usual.

"They'll take him," Father Forthill said, and he almost choked on his mingled relief and disbelief.

From there on, it was almost too easy. If challenges presented themselves then so did solutions. Members of his congregation whose lives or families had been saved by Daredevil showed up unprompted and with unexpected free time, looking for ways to help out the church. Anonymous donations weren't unheard of, but ones that seemed to have exactly what they needed at each step of the process were... also not unheard of, this was a church, but it was like divine providence was shining down on this project.

It was almost enough to sooth his fears about whether he was doing the right thing.

In the end, they shipped him out smothered in blankets and bandages in the back of a van, an old battered thing that belonged to a paramedic whose daughter had been saved from a trafficking ring by Daredevil. Lantom prayed as they pulled out, prayers for safe passage and healing, physical and emotional and spiritual.

God knew how much Matthew needed it.

* * *

 

When Matt woke, it was in pain, in a bed with coarse sheets in a place where the air smelled nothing like home.

He swallowed, took a deep breath and very intentionally forced the panic down into something almost manageable. Instead of the normal smells of city life and old takeout, crumbling brick and motor oil, this place smelled like children, like grass stains and dog hair and sawdust and cheerios and eggs.

While it was unfamiliar, the combination didn't seem threatening. It reminded him a little bit of when he'd gone to the Nelsons' for Christmas and their entire extended family had been there, crammed into the same house until all the guest rooms were full and he and Foggy had crashed on the floor of the living room in a nest made of pillows and blankets.

The sudden, vibrant memory wasn't any more helpful than the panic, so he pushed it down too, but not before noting that he'd probably never see Foggy's family again. He'd burned that bridge and he didn't have time to regret it, not here in this unfamiliar space when the last thing he remembered was dying under heaps of rubble with Elektra in his arms.

He focused instead on gathering details about his surroundings. The room was small, and so was the bed, barely long enough for his admittedly short frame. The quilt, when he ran his fingertips over it, had an interesting pattern—flowers? And the drifting scent of wallpaper paste and dye told him someone had put up a wallpaper, probably brightly colored, not too long ago.

There was some furniture, presumably a nightstand and a dresser, though they, too, were smaller than he would expect. At the foot of the bed sat a large wooden chest that smelled overwhelmingly of plastic, probably toys.

He was in a child's room.

He had barely started to make sense of this when there was a small knock on the door, timid and at a much lower height than he would have expected. The heartbeat on the other side of the door was unnaturally fast, and he thought they must be nervous before he realized the person knocking was probably just young.

"Come in," he tried to say, but it came out a dry croak that made him wince. The child must have understood, or just grown impatient, because the door handle turned, followed by a sudden draft and the pattering of small footsteps coming closer.

"Hi," the child said, "I'm Maggie."

"Matt," he offered, still hoarse. "Where am I?"

"You're in my new room," she said as though it were obvious, "but right now I'm staying in little Harry's room with him."

"I'm sorry," he said, and meant it. He wasn't sure how he'd taken this girl's room, but he contented himself that he'd give it back the second he could stand, which should be any time now.

"It's okay," she said. "I'm good at sharing. Charity says you have an owie and you need to get better, and sharing my room means I'm helping."

A patter of footsteps and a retreating heartbeat said she was running again, though she was back in a few seconds and pressing something into his arms. A stuffed bear. "Here," she said, "his name is Emmet, and he makes me feel better."

He tried to hand it back, she didn't let him. "I couldn't take your bear," he tried, but she pressed it back into his arms.

"Just until you feel better, then you can give him back," she said, so seriously that he had to smile.

"Thank you," he said, and gave the bear a squeeze. The fur was rough beneath his hands, and clearly well-loved.

"I gotta go tell Charity that you're awake," she said, and before he could ask who Charity was she had darted out the door and was gone.

A few moments later heavy footsteps were echoing up a set of stairs, and he could make out another heartbeat approaching, this one strong and slow and steady. The opening door created eddies in the still room air, bringing with them the scent of flour and cotton and dish soap.

"Welcome back to the land of the conscious," said the woman, and her voice reminded him of some of the kinder nuns from his time in St. Agnes Orphanage. The same kindness mixed with stern authority underlay every word.

"Where am I?" He tried to sit up, and he would swear he could _feel_  the disapproving glare as a hand on his shoulder pushed him back down.

"Safe," she said. "You're in our home, and you're staying in that bed until I say otherwise, understand?"

He nodded before even considering what she had asked of him. If Columbia had taught him that tone of voice, he'd have won every case he'd ever taken, easily.

"Who are you?" He sounded small and confused, even to his own ears, and he was sure he was doing what Foggy called 'that lost little blind puppy dog look', but the woman only clicked her tongue as she pressed her wrist to his forehead, checking for fever.

"Never you mind that now."  Apparently satisfied, she left the room, only to return an instant later. Fingernails clanking against glass and the cool smell of moisture told him she had a glass of water. “Here,” she said, “If I help you sit up do you think you can drink this?”

He nodded, and after a bit of awkward struggling he was propped up against the headboard, supported by pillows and hungrily gulping the coolest, most refreshing water he'd ever tasted. It helped to rinse some of the stagnant taste out of his mouth, and once he'd finished drinking he felt almost normal. Well, for a given definition of normal. A things-went-wrong-on-patrol-last-night definition of normal.

Almost without trying he slid back until he was flat on his back once more. For once, sleep claimed him peacefully.

* * *

 

“I have to leave.”

They were the first words out of his mouth the second time he woke up. Charity didn't come to check on him this time; instead, a tall man with a firm, reassuring heartbeat and a crutch that tapped a steady rhythm on the hardwood floor came in with a bowl of soup. His breathing didn't catch in surprise at Matt's pronouncement, and his heartbeat didn't speed up, only carried on pounding like a bass drum. The soup bowl clanked gently as it was set on the bedside table and then a warm hand covered his shoulder.

“Do you need help sitting up?” the man asked, and his voice was as warm as Charity's, and though it wasn't as stern, Matt got the impression that it could be firm as well, if it needed to be.

He shook his head and pushed himself to a sitting position, ignoring the pain as the motion pulled at still-healing injuries. “I'm serious,” he said, feeling faintly annoyed when the man still showed no sign that he was taking the warning seriously. “I can't be here with your family. I'll put you all in danger.”

“I think we can handle it.” Matt could hear the smile in his voice, and it drove his frustration higher.

“You don't understand,” Matt said. “I'm not—I'm not safe. I shouldn't be here.”

The hand stayed on his shoulder, unfairly soothing even as his mind started racing with his panic. How long had he been here? How long could he reasonably expect to stay in any one place before what was left of the Hand, if anything was left of the Hand, found him? “Calm down,” the man said, and there was the commanding note in his voice, even if it wasn't unkind. His deep voice rumbled in his chest; Matt could feel the vibrations through the hand still on his arm. “You're safe here.”

“You don't know who I am,” he insisted, gasping a little as his heart raced. “Nowhere is safe.”

“I know enough,” he said. “I know you've helped a lot of people.”

Matt froze. Of course, it had been stupid to assume that anyone who took him in didn't know him as Daredevil. He'd been wearing the suit when he passed out, after all. Still, he doubted these good Samaritans knew what that meant, or much of anything at all about him beyond reputation and rumors.

He took a deep breath, using the time to marshal his arguments while the man reached again for the bowl of soup. “If you know who I am,” he said carefully, “you know I have enemies. I can't stay here. They'll find me.”

A rustle of fabric—the man shrugged, and said the last thing he would have expected. “Maybe they will. We'll deal with it if it happens.”

“These aren't the kind of people you can just deal with,” he said when the dumbfounded shock wore off.

“You might be surprised.” He could hear the smile again, even though the words were completely serious. “We have more in common than you might think, Matthew.”

“Who are you?” he managed in a weak voice.

“My name is Michael Carpenter, and I'm the man who's going to be in trouble with his wife if I don't actually give you this soup. You look recovered enough to hold a spoon on your own, so I'm going to put the bowl in your left hand, okay?” He did, touching the back of his hand first to let Matt know where he was.

Matt took it, because the soup smelled amazing, and because there didn't seem to be much else he could do.

* * *

 

“Why are you helping me?” he asked the next time Michael brought him food. Matt had reached the stage of recovery where he felt better enough to desperately want a shower, but not quite enough to stand for more than quick trips to the bathroom. Soon. Almost too soon, if his past memory of near-death injuries and their recovery periods served. It was almost as though the atmosphere of this place lent itself to rest and recovery, as if something in the air or water were helping him heal.

Michael pressed the plate into his hands—spaghetti, this time, the sauce made fresh with the herbs from a little garden he could smell outside his window when the wind was just right—and sunk into a chair that had appeared near the bed sometime after he started spending more time conscious.

“Why wouldn't we?” Michael asked mildly.

Matt raised one eyebrow, making an effort to track Michael's voice and face him. “Why wouldn't you risk your life and your family and break the law to help a total stranger?”

“You've never risked anything to help a stranger?” His voice never changed, never wavered from its infuriating calm.

“It's different.”

Michael hummed. “Is it?”

“Yes,” he said firmly.

Michael chuckled, then, the sound warm. “You remind me of a friend of mine,” he said. “Too stubborn for your own good.” His voice turned more serious then. “So why do you do what you do?”

Matt frowned. “What I do?”

“Vigilantism. Fighting crime. Saving people. Whatever you prefer to call it. Why do you do it?”

“Oh.” He fiddled with his hands in his lap, running a thumb over the uneven calluses from his clubs. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“Thought?” The question was soft, gentle even.

“Yeah. After how everything turned out...” his fingers clenched, curling around until his nails bit into his palm, “I'm not so sure anymore.”

“Ah.” The bed dipped where Michael moved to sit on the edge. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He relaxed his shoulders, realizing that he'd been unconsciously gearing up for an argument. “That's it?”

“I'm not here to force you into anything,” he said mildly. “You don't owe me an explanation.”

“Don't I?” Because he did owe these people a debt, as much as he hated it, and he didn't have much of anything to give beyond the inadequate truth. “From where I am it seems like I owe you people an awful lot.”

 _Perhaps that's intentional_ , something suspicious and jaded inside him whispered. They could get him in their debt and then leverage it to—but no, he cut himself off because that didn't fit. Days had passed and still he hadn't picked up a hint of deception or ill will, and in a way that was almost worse. He didn't deserve this family, and certainly they didn't deserve to be saddled with him.

“You don't owe me anything,” Michael said with absolute conviction blazing in his voice. Matt snorted.

“Please. You took me into your home, you've been feeding me, spending time looking after me...”

“You don't have to repay things freely offered and given,” Michael said firmly. “That isn't how it works. I'll not have you belittling our generosity by assuming it comes with hidden strings or traps.”

Matt...had nothing to say to that, no idea what he _could_  say. It mirrored his earlier thoughts too much for him to protest, but he could feel the heat creeping up into his cheeks.

“And to answer your earlier question,” Michael said more gently, floorboards creaking as he stood, “as to why I'm giving you a place to stay—I believe I'm doing the right thing. You're welcome to remain here as long as you need.”

Matt swallowed down the lump in his throat, trying not to let it choke him.

* * *

 

The next couple of weeks flowed together into a series of small, hard-won victories. Standing on his own long enough to wash the rest of the dried blood and dust from Midtown out of his hair. Making his way down the single flight of stairs that separated the upstairs bedrooms from the rest of the house. Dressing in actual clothes, and not the loose sweatpants donated by someone at the church because Michael was nearly large enough to be two of Matt, and the children were either much taller or far smaller than him.

In between these were bits of domestic life he hadn't thought himself capable of. The children had avoided his room the first few days after his introduction to Maggie, presumably under orders to leave him to his rest, but the second he emerged they became a constant presence, asking him questions and chattering about their day and acting as though he'd always been a part of the family. There were so _many_  of them, too, that he could hardly keep track of them—the Carpenter's own children, but also the neighborhood kids and friends from school and from sports and from church who all seemed to have adopted this place as a second home. They came for play dates or warm meals or a place to stay until their parents came back from work, and not once was a child told they had overstayed their welcome.

The first time he made it downstairs by himself, Charity pressed a potato peeler into his hands and set him to work. Once he got past the shock he was grateful—it gave him something to do, a way to feel productive after days of laying in bed, and even though they still assured him he didn't owe them anything, a small way to give back.

The steady stream of small chores kept up, from ‘watching’ the younger children to helping prepare meals to mending clothing with neat rows of stitches unlike the ones he'd learned to patch up his dad as a kid. The work always seemed to materialize when he sank too deep in his thoughts and dry up when he didn't have the energy, and he strongly suspected the woman was crafty enough to know exactly what she was doing.

Several times he told himself he would leave, would stop taxing the kindness of these compassionate strangers, but every time he remembered that he had nowhere to go. His friends probably thought he was dead, and it was better that way. His city was hundreds of miles away, and he didn't have the money to go home even if he still had a home to go to. So he stayed, and he cooked, and he helped the kids with their homework when they read him their essays and listened when they talked about soccer practice and school plays.

After the second week, he was able to pile into the minivan with the rest of the family to go to Mass. Their church wasn't as old as the little chapel in Hell's Kitchen, the faintly metallic smell of the stone replaced by the more subtly, earthy scent of polished wood, but something in the atmosphere felt familiar in a way that soothed him. No one said anything when he avoided confession, mostly because he didn't feel ready to try and untangle his actions to search out the sins. Who knew what might fall out if he tried.

But once the thought came back, he found he couldn't banish it again. All the way back it nagged at him, chewing holes in his thoughts and dragging them back into predictable grooves. Here, in this place of peace that still didn't feel quite real, he could almost forget the wreck he'd made of his own life.  But he couldn't, not really, couldn't forget the way he'd hurt everyone he cared about and torn apart everything that'd mattered to him.

When the car stopped and they piled out he hung back. Instead of following everyone inside, he made his way around to the backyard and sank into one of the wicker chairs that had become his favorite place to sit and think.

Before he could really settle in, a familiar set of heavy footsteps offset by the tapping of a crutch made their way over the concrete, and with a creaking of chair joints Michael settled across from him.

“You seem pensive,” he said after another moment of quiet. “Is everything all right?”

“Fine,” he said. Michael didn't agree or argue, only sat in companionable silence.

“I didn't go to confession,” he said into the silence after another moment. Michael didn't react. Of course, he had been there, he wasn't surprised.

“I know. You can go when you're ready,” he said in a voice remarkably free of judgment.

“I don't know when that'll be,” he said, focusing on keeping the embarrassing tremors of emotion out of his voice. Or perhaps, more honestly, “I'm not sure what I should confess to. Maybe everything. I hurt people, and I let people get hurt. Sometimes both at the same time, I think.”

He didn't know why he was saying this, why  _now_ , but once he started it all began to pour out, like the breaking of a dam. 

A hot feeling rose up and prickled at the back of his eyes. "It just—it feels like no matter what I do, it's wrong. I tried to ignore it all, to block it out, but it—it was like it was eating away at me, on the inside. I'd hear these terrible things, and I'd know they were happening, and I couldn't just shut that out. How was I supposed to hear people suffering and not care?"

He ran a hand over his face, swiping at the gathering tears, but his voice stayed steady. "Psalm 9:12. 'He does not ignore the cries of the afflicted'. I can't believe that I'm just supposed to sit back and do nothing. I don't believe that."

He brought his legs in, balanced on the edge of the chair, and looped one arm around them, making himself small. "But then I started to _do_  something about it and—it helped, for a bit. But in some ways it's worse. I'm _hurting_  people to keep them from hurting other people. And while I'm doing it," he leaned back, squaring his shoulders as though his confession were another enemy he must face, "I enjoy it."

He tilted his head. "I feel guilty when I don't do anything and guilty when I do everything I can. I'm doing too much and it isn't enough and," he sucked in air then let out a broken laugh, "I don't even think I really know what I'm guilty of anymore.

"I know I was wrong. I made mistakes and everything fell apart. But I look back and I—I don't know what I should have done differently. Every step, every decision I made felt like the right one, _still_  feels like the right one. Why did they bring me here?"

Here, where the only people he had were the compassionate strangers who'd taken him in like a stray a few weeks before. Here, where the business he'd built with his best friend had collapsed under the weight of his dysfunction. Here, where he'd all but given his life trying to save a city that was never safe enough, always ready with another crisis to stretch him too thin.

“I know this probably isn't what you want to hear,” Michael said, the words rumbling through the air and the broad palm with its reassuring grip on his arm, “but maybe here is where you need to be right now.” Matt held himself back from shaking his head, forced himself to listen.

“I don't know the full story of what happened before they brought you here,” he started. “I know there was a bad situation, and you saved a lot of people. I also know you were in bad shape. It's a miracle you survived at all.”

He swallowed, and still said nothing.

“I know you were working with other people,” Michael said, softer now. “I know none of them ended up underneath a collapsed building.”

“I had to stay,” he said, almost as much to himself as to Michael. “There was no other way.”

“Were you looking for another way?”

He wanted to say yes, of course, to snap the answer out in anger and make himself believe it. Before, if anyone asked, he would have, but now—now he didn't have the energy. His body was healing and growing stronger, but his spirit still felt fractured, as though it had splintered along a fault line sometime long ago and he'd spent the last few years painting over the cracks.

“No,” he admitted, almost inaudibly, and he felt his face crumple, and something inside him crumpled with it. It was the secret he hadn't fully admitted even to himself, that every fiber of him wanted to deny but couldn't.

And then somehow Michael's arms were around him and he was sobbing, hard, into a worn T-shirt that reminded him of his dad, and for a second he was back to that terrified blind child from right after the Accident, searching for the strength to face an uncertain future.

Michael wrapped a hand around his head while the other rubbed soothing circles on his back and just held him, letting him cry. He could dimly hear the fragments of whispered prayers, _Father, help this, your child_ , as he cried harder than he had in recent memory, harder than he'd allowed himself after Nobu and the fight with Foggy, after the death of Nelson & Murdock, after losing Electra. _Give him healing_. He cried like he fought, like something was trying to get out of him. _Give him peace_.

When the tears finally subsided, he pulled back, scrubbing at eyelids that felt raw and sticky. “I don't want to die,” he said at last. "I don't think I want to die. But I don't want to live like this anymore, and I can't find a way out."

“Oh Matthew,” he said, and something sounded broken in his voice as well, “that isn't—” he cut himself off, and there was an audible hitch in his breathing before it steadied. “I'm glad you are here,” he said instead. “I know things can seem hopeless, but broken lives can heal. There is always hope.”

“Not for me,” he shook his head, “not for me. I can't fix things. I don't know _how_. I only know how to break them.”

Michael took a deep breath to speak and he shook his head again. “Do you want to know why I didn't go to confession today? I didn't go to confession,” he said, voice raw, “because afterwards you have to make it right, and I don't know how I'm going to _do_  that when I don't even know how to stop doing it all wrong. How can I make up for what I've done when every time I try I make things worse? How can I atone for my sins when everything I do only seems to drive me deeper?"

Michael's voice was gentle, his heartbeat pounding out the same steady, honest rhythm. "You can't."

Those two words hit him hard, driving the breath from his lungs like a kick to the solar plexus. He felt something inside him break, and he couldn't tell if it was grief at hearing his deepest insecurities confirmed or relief that he could finally stop trying.

A warm, steady hand gripped his shoulder. "You can't, because that isn't how this works. You're looking for atonement like it's something you can earn, but deep down you know instinctively that it isn't, so you feel like you're climbing the same mountain again and again and never reaching the top."

He leaned in. "Our Father doesn't offer us atonement. He took that on Himself. What we are offered is forgiveness, and forgiveness isn't earned, only accepted. You don't need to kill yourself trying to make up for past mistakes. You need to allow yourself to be forgiven, and you need to forgive yourself."

Matt laughed, and it tasted like despair. "I don't believe it's that easy."

"Accepting forgiveness isn't easy," Michael said. "But it is the only way. Trying to earn what has already been freely given only steals your hope and your joy. Do you really believe that's what God intends for you?"

"I think it's what I deserve."

"And how ugly would the world be," Michael said softly, "if we all got exactly what we deserve."

He closed his eyes and curled up tighter, balancing his feet on the edge of the chair and hugging his knees so hard that his arms shook.

“And whatever you may think,” Michael continued, “you don't deserve to live in pain. You don't deserve to live in sorrow.” He lowered his voice. “You don't deserve to have to do this alone, Matthew. No one does.”

His nails dug deeper into his palms. “My friends,” he said, because that was the last, deepest failure that he held closest to his heart. “I hurt them. With what I did, what I didn't do—just by being around them, I hurt them.”

Michael hummed. “I wonder, if you asked them, if they would say the same.

He swallowed and nodded. “They would. Did.”

Michael leaned back, the wicker of the chair creaking underneath him. “Do you know who has the power to truly hurt us? It isn't our enemies, or even the people who brush against the edges of our lives. Only the people we love.” Something clenched inside Matt, something hot and tight that squeezed his chest and made it difficult to breathe.

Michael leaned forward again, and his voice went incredibly gentle. “Matthew, where do these people think you are?”

“Dead,” he said, his voice little more than a croak. “They think I'm dead.”

“I see.” Even the reproof in those words was gentle, and it shattered him a thousand times more than if they had been filled with the condemnation he deserved.

“They're better off,” he said, the “without me” hanging unspoken in the air between them.

“Are they?” Michael asked, but it wasn't a question. “Or are you hurting them again without meaning to?”

His breath caught; he couldn't answer that, not without the guilt stripping him raw.

“You need friends, Matthew.” A simple statement, carrying the casual assurance of indisputable fact.

“They deserve better,” he managed to gasp.

“I think that's for them to decide, don't you?” Michael held something out, something small. A phone, he realized. His phone, the one he'd had on him when the building had gone down, tucked in a secret pocket of the suit with Claire and Foggy's numbers. “You don't have to do it now, but you should let them know you're alive,” Michael said. “It's difficult to rebuild relationships with people who think you're dead.”

He though of Foggy, Foggy angry after the Castle case, Foggy resigned and handing over the suit as he finally let him go, and choked on a bitter laugh. "I'm not sure our friendship can be rebuilt."

"Maybe not. But until you try, can you be sure you aren't killing yourself to find a way to something you already have?"

He nodded, shaky, and let himself imagine everything he feared. Foggy, disappointed and angry and betrayed, Karen wanting never to see him again, Claire giving him up as a lost cause, all the weight of his mistakes hanging between them like a debt he couldn't ever pay.

But even as he imagined it the treacherous images twisted away from him and were replaced by memories. Foggy, practically crowing with excitement as he drew the sign for Nelson & Murdock on a crumpled bar napkin. Karen's easy laugh when Foggy pronounced her coffee undrinkable, and then proceeded to drink two full mugs before their first client of the day. Claire bringing him warm coffee on the roof while he kept watch over the hospital.

Maybe Michael was right, and they could forgive him.

Maybe, in time, he could even forgive himself.

He took a deep breath.

And picked up the phone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a very short bit of more fic that was sitting in my drafts, and which I didn't really plan to post but here we are. Thanks to everyone who supported this odd little fic exploring my feelings about my favorite Catholic badasses!
> 
> To the one person who subscribed to this fic despite there being no indication that there would ever be a second chapter...somehow, you were right. Well played.

Matt turned the phone over and over again in his hand, willing himself to dial the number. _Coward_ , something inside him spat, and he held it out in defeat. “I can't.”

Michael took it without saying anything, but Matt could practically feel his disappointment. “Could you...?” he asked, battling down the shame burning in his gut.

Michael nodded, a small crinkling of fabric. “Of course. Who—”

“The second contact,” he said. “Foggy Nelson.”

The phone made a small mechanical tone as it dialed, then it connected with a click. “Hello?”

He had to catch his breath. Hearing Foggy's voice again...it twisted something deep in his stomach, and he knew that if he'd been the one holding the phone he'd have dropped it.

“Hello,” Michael's voice was steady. “Is this Foggy Nelson?”

“Speaking.” Foggy sounded wary, uneasy. “Who is this?”

“My name is Michael, and I'm calling on behalf of a mutual friend. Do you know a Matthew Murdock?”

Even through the phone, Matt could hear Foggy's breath catch. “What about Matt?”

“He's here,” Michael said, “with me and my family. He's safe.”

The pause stretched on for so long, Matt would have thought Foggy had hung up if he couldn't just make out the ragged breathing on the other end of the line. “No,” Foggy said at last. “No, you're lying, because if Matt was alive I would know. He'd have told me before now. I don't know if you think this is some kind of joke—” his voice broke and yes, Foggy was definitely crying. 

“When Matthew came to us he was very hurt,” Michael said gently. “It took this long for him to recover enough to tell us who to call.”

“Holy sh—this long? Is he okay?” The level of panic that suffused Foggy's voice set the guilt rushing in all over again. 

“He will be in time, Lord willing,” Michael said. 

“Where are you?” Foggy asked at last. “I'm coming to see him.”

“Chicago,” Michael said, “west of Wrigley Field.”

“Well crap,” Foggy said, “how'd he end up—never mind, I'm still coming, I just have to clear the time off with my boss. And get a car somehow. Is this the best number to reach you at when I'm on my way?”

There was a minute of Michael giving Foggy his own cell phone number, and Foggy double and triple-checked it before asking, “So, if Matt's there, can he—can I talk to him?” 

Michael paused, and he shook his head slightly, given over to panic. He didn't know what to say, what he _could_  say that would possibly make any of this any better, and at the moment he felt too drained and exhausted to try. 

“I don't think he's up for it right now,” Michael said. “Is there a message you'd like me to pass along for you?”

“Yeah. Tell him—” Foggy cleared his throat. “Tell him that I'll be there as soon as I possibly can, and that—that I'm sorry, and I am so so glad he's alive.”

“I'll make sure he knows.” Michael lowered the phone, ending the call. 

“You lied to him,” Matt said in disbelief as soon as the line disconnected.

“No,” Michael said, “I didn't. Spiritual and emotional wounds are no less real than physical ones, and they can restrict your actions just as easily.”

He shook his head, but the tone of Michael's voice said this wasn't a point he'd concede, so Matt didn't bother trying to argue. 

A sound off to the side of the yard made him snap his attention around, but it was only Mouse, Maggie's dog that was bigger than any animal smaller than a bear had a right to be. Mouse padded over on surprisingly quiet paws, said “boof” in a decidedly less than quiet way, and none-too-gently stuck his head in Matt's lap. 

He choked on a small laugh despite himself and scratched behind the large ears. Mouse's entire body squirmed happily at the attention, and his tail beat against the porch table with a sound like a baseball bat being taken to an overstuffed couch. 

After a moment he leaned forward enough to wrap his arms around the giant neck, burying his hands to the wrist in the thick mane of fur. Mouse went still, patiently waiting out the hug without making a sound beyond the occasional huff. 

To his surprise, when he finally released the dog, Mouse didn't bound off, only sat next to him and wormed his head under Matt's hand, just staying as a warm, solid presence beside him. 

From somewhere in the house, Charity called for her husband, and Michael stood. “Will you be okay if I go?”

Matt took a deep breath. “I think so,” he said, and was surprised to find how much he meant it. “Yes, I think I'll be okay.”

The future was too much to think about. He didn't know if he could put his old life back together, had no idea what he could possibly say to Foggy when his best friend showed up. 

But for this moment, maybe, with his fingers combing through fur that was softer than it had any right to be and people around him who would hold steady when he fell apart, he could be okay. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I like giving my favorite disasters the emotional support they so desperately need? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Author's Note:**

> Ending it here, because I give it 0.2 seconds before a human disaster of a wizard shows up and things get complicated. 
> 
> Have a great day!


End file.
